Dale Brown - Act of War

“Let’s make it a month,” Pereira spat. “You think you can just march into another American city now, after an attack with nuclear weapons? Every soldier and law-enforcement officer in the country will be out looking for us. The Brazilian government will hand us over or kill us just to show they’re cooperating with the United States.”

“Everyone will be running scared,” Zakharov said confidently. “Yes, law enforcement will be mobilized—they’ll scoop up all the usual suspects, make a few hundred arrests, and declare victory. After a short time, things will return to normal, except more Americans will stay in their homes, watch the world from the comfort of their television sets, and fret over the losses in their investment portfolios.”

“Easy for you to say,” Pereira said. “Anyone with colored skin will be considered a suspect.”

“Bastantes! Aquele é bastante!” Ruiz said wearily. “I do not want to argue about this again. We will use all of our best information and resources to determine the best time to meet again. Until then, we will all keep a low profile, gather as much data as we can about our targets all over the world, and come up with recommendations. When it is safe to do so, we will meet and decide on a plan of action.” He grasped both Zakharov’s and Pereira’s hands in his. “There is much work to be done, meus amigos bons. Colonel Zakharov has struck a mighty blow for our cause, but the fight is not yet over, and I feel it will become more difficult. We must be strong and united until our common enemy is brought down. Sim?” When he did not receive a response from either of them, he grasped their hands tighter. “Agreed?” Finally Pereira and Zakharov nodded and shook hands. “Muito bem. Good luck to you, my friends. May God be with you both.” Pereira endured a stern glare from Zakharov’s aide Khalimov, but he was accustomed to that—and the aide was not so tough without his boss nearby, Pereira knew, so he didn’t concern himself with the big Russian.

“That peasant Pereira deserves another helicopter ride, Colonel—I would be happy to show him the sights of, for example, the Atlantic Ocean, about two hundred miles offshore,” Khalimov said.

Zakharov thought for a moment, then: “Track him to his safe house—somewhere in São Paulo or Santos, along the wharves I think. When he’s safely inside, contact our man in the PME and have him arrested. They can publicize his capture, but then I need for Pereira to try to escape or try to kill a guard, at which time the people of Brazil should be spared the expense of securing, trying, and incarcerating him.”

“Da, rookavadeeteel,” Khalimov said, grinning. “Ya paneemayoo.”

“I want to meet with our strike leaders at the farm first thing tomorrow night.”

“They will be there, sir,” Khalimov said.

Zakharov smiled and nodded. With Pereira out of the way and Ruiz scared out of his wits, the operation was looking better and better all the time. Zakharov gulped another shot of vodka, disappointed as ever that his favorite drink got so warm so quickly in this damnable forest, then headed out to his waiting armored sedan.

About an hour later, Yegor Zakharov’s car pulled off the main highway into São Paulo onto a two-lane road that twisted through farms and patches of forest. After another thirty minutes’ drive, he turned down a dirt road and a few minutes later approached a comfortable-looking adobe farmhouse with a red tile roof, an expansive walled courtyard in front, and a barn and a maid’s quarters in back. The car drove immediately into the barn, and the doors were quickly closed by men armed with machine guns. Khalimov got out of the driver’s seat, withdrew a submachine gun, and carefully kept guard while several men approached Zakharov’s car. The men saluted as Zakharov emerged from the sedan.

“Report,” the ex-Russian Strategic Rocket Forces Colonel ordered.

“All secure, sir,” one of the men reported. “No unusual activity in this area, and the commandante of the local PME barracks reports no unusual movement or strangers in the area. Radio traffic is routine.” He handed Zakharov transcripts of local radio and telephone conversations.

“The airspace?”

“Last PME patrol aircraft flyover was yesterday, sir,” the man reported. “Photos and identification are in the report. One American Keyhole-class photoreconnaissance satellite over our area—its orbit is elliptical, optimized for the northern hemisphere, but obviously it can be adjusted quickly to scan our area. Next flyover will be in six and a half hours.”

Zakharov nodded. The lower-altitude intelligence satellites were easy to avoid or spoof—it was the high-altitude satellites and the unmanned long-range drones that were the real threat. The best tactic was to avoid all exposure as much as possible—change codes, shift frequencies, alter timetables and travel routes, and move from place to place as much as possible to cover their tracks.

Zakharov dismissed the security men and stepped outside to a shaded patio to get out of the hot sun. Pavel Khalimov, his submachine gun now hanging on a snap-cord around his neck so he could quickly raise it, approached him, holding a portable satellite phone. “He has called twice now, sir,” he said simply.

“Let him call. It is far safer for him than it is for me.” But at that moment the phone rang. Zakharov swore under his breath and motioned for the phone. “Have you ever heard of communications security?” he asked in Russian, after engaging the security circuits.

“Just a friendly warning—stay out of the United States for a while,” the caller said in Russian. The voice was being altered with an electronic scrambler—it changed every few seconds from a high-pitched whine to a very low-pitched moan, so much so that it was impossible to decipher even if it was male or female. “The FBI, CIA, and every American military investigative unit will be…”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before,” Zakharov snapped. “Listen, you wanted TransGlobal to bleed, and now they’re bleeding. You think anyone was going to pay attention to attacks in Panama or Egypt?”

“Just a word to the wise, that’s all, you big asshole,” the voice said affably. “Every government agency is going to be on the lookout. We don’t want to spoil the big finale. Everything is on schedule and going according to plan—just don’t blow it now by being too anxious. Concentrate on the African and European target list I’ve already given you. Stay out of sight for a few weeks.”

“Stop telling me what to do, zalupa!” Zakharov shouted. “If you had the guts to do what I have done, you would have done the same. You know damned well that Kingman’s base of power is the United States. You want him destroyed, my friend, then you go to America.”

“You did a fine job, Colonel,” the caller said. “I’d hate to have such a fine career cut short. Once again, a friendly word of advice: stay out of the United States.” And the call was terminated. Fifteen seconds from start to finish—even when angry and wishing to chew one of his subordinates out, Zakharov thought, the chief of the Consortium maintained the strictest communications security. The most sophisticated eavesdropping systems in the world—TEMPEST, Petaplex, Echelon, Enigma, Sombrero—couldn’t intercept, lock, and triangulate a satellite call in less than fifteen seconds.

But he had to grudgingly hand it to him: the head of the Consortium, known to Zakharov only by his code name Deryektar, the Director, was one cold-blooded son of a bitch. He had money, lots of it, and he wasn’t squeamish about where to spend it as long as whatever happened furthered his objectives.

Fuck him, Zakharov thought. He was running scared. Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov had just become the greatest and most deadly terrorist in the world—he wasn’t about to run and hide now.